Practice (Makes Perfect)
by skybound2
Summary: She shifts her body, doing as instructed and falling into something approaching the proper stance. "Okay, Commander. You have me where you want me, now what are you going to do with me?" Maker's breath, but he is happy.


**Title: **Practice (Makes Perfect)  
**Author:** skybound2  
**Rating:** T  
**Characters**: F!Lavellan/Cullen  
**Word Count**: ~3000  
**Spoilers: **Minuscule ones for DA:I  
**Summary: **She shifts her body, doing as instructed and falling into something approaching the proper stance. "Okay, Commander. You have me where you want me, now what are you going to do with me?" Maker's _breath_, but he is _happy_.  
**Author Notes: **This story was written for _**itsmyfreakin **_(because reasons) and stars her Inquisitor, _**Phaedra**_. She requested "_Cullen catching Phaedra off-guard and making _her_ blush for a change." _Blushing can therefore be found within! (On BOTH sides, because CULLEN.) Timeline-wise, this takes place at some amorphous point during DA:I before endgame, but POST-desk sweep scene. Also, while this may seem angsty in the beginning, that's just a smoke-screen, I swear! This is a fluff piece. I hope you enjoy!

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**Practice (Makes Perfect)**

* * *

It's a novelty, walking the ramparts hand-in-hand with the woman he loves. Such a far cry from anything he ever could have anticipated, or would have hoped for; not since his days at Kinloch Hold, when he was still young and idealistic enough to think that Templars were the heroes that the tales made them out to be. When he was still eager enough to want to _prove_ himself worthy of the title, and all that it entailed; to want to make his Knight-Commander _proud_.

Back before Uldred, and the twisted embrace of a desire demon.

Back before he sneered in contempt, spitting vitriol at the first woman he ever cared for; begging her to put the mages - her _friends_ \- down like blighted dogs. Back before he understood that she was the true Hero of the tale, and he but the Fool.

Back before Meredith, and the Gallows, and lyrium so corrupted that he can still hear its song in his sleep.

With a mental shake he's spent years perfecting, he shrugs off thoughts of his time in the Ferelden Circle, of Kirkwall; he's not fool enough to not recognize a blessing from the Maker when he sees it. He's been gifted with more chances than he deserves, and his time with the Inquisitor - with _Phaedra _\- is at a premium. He will not squander it lost in the past.

He focuses instead on the blending of reds and oranges on the horizon; on the way that they shimmer against Phaedra's hair, on how they illuminate her skin; bathing her in a sea of colors so vibrant that it makes everything around her pale in comparison.

Were this the Fade, and she but the wishful conjuring of a lonely mind, he does not think she would be so beautiful.

In the wake of the setting sun, the air around them is cool, crisp; but pleasant. Far from the biting cold that plagued their early days at Skyhold. There's a wind, blowing in gently from the mountains to the north, but any lingering cold is chased away by the warmth of her palm, pressed tightly to his own. By the heat of her arm as it brushes against his own with each step.

Maker's _breath_, but he is _happy_.

They continue on, up a set of stairs, through a tower still in need of repair, and to the higher battlements, in a slow trek around Skyhold. Silent, but for an unknown tune Phaedra hums beneath her breath; basking in one another's presence after too many weeks apart. With him training new recruits here at Skyhold, while she was out spreading word of the Inquisition - undoubtedly feeding her own legend, whether she cared to or not - gathering both agents and forces with as much ease as elfroot.

A clash from the training grounds below draws their attention, and with a tug she pulls him towards the edge, so that they can look down at the recruits practicing below. It's a testament to how far the Inquisition has come that it is a mage tasked with lighting the braziers around the grounds, so that the training may continue uninterrupted.

"Do they often train after dark?"

"On occasion. As you well know, not all battles are fought during the day, or in accommodating weather, so it's best if they put in hours practicing in a variety of conditions. A night as fair as this one offers as ideal a set of conditions as they are like to find. Better than last week's daytime training in a torrential downpour at any rate."

Phaedra's laugh is bright, her eyes flashing with mischief as they scan him from head to toe, in a look that is fast becoming both familiar and a favorite. "What a sight that must have been. I'm sorry I missed it."

"Yes, well, be thankful you weren't there. I was finding caked-in mud for days after in all sorts of unfortunate places, no matter how rigorously I bathed."

Her lower lip sticks out in a pout, tempting him to do something foolish, like tug on it with his teeth in full view of the courtyard below. "If you're trying to make me glad I wasn't there, you should know you're failing. Horribly."

Cullen's bark of laughter is swift and loud; returning to them in an echo off the stone that startles a crow nearby, sending it swooping off into the air with an indignant squawk. Phaedra pulls on his hand, pulling him back towards the center of the rampart so that they may resume their walk.

"The Dalish follow similar training practices. The apprentices to the hunters receive the brunt of it, of course. But as First, I was brought along on occasion as part of my own training."

"What sort of training?"

"The ancient elven art of _patience_." Phaedra scrunches her nose on the word, causing his stomach to flip-flop at how adorable she looks when she does so. She continues on, gesturing at the air with a shaking finger. "'You are too hot-headed, _da'len_. You must learn _patience!_' Ugh. Because laying in wait in a tree for a wild boar to show its face is the only way to teach such a thing. As training exercises go, I assure you, it is both more tedious and more uncomfortable than it sounds."

"Mmm. Have I ever told you about the vigils that Templar recruits have to undergo in order to complete their training? A portion of them has us standing, in full armor, for half-a-day. Not permitted to speak, or so much as scratch our nose. I think I would have preferred the tree."

"Yes, well, I think I may have preferred your vigil, at least it has a set timeline. We could be out there for days if our prey was wily. But, my Keeper insisted that it would help me learn to focus; that it would make drawing on the Beyond for my magic that much easier."

"And did it?"

"Well, _yes_, in the sense that I learned how to summon and aim a fireball at an escaping boar while lying prone in a tree, at night, _in the rain, _without so much as singeing a leaf. It worked remarkably well for that! Though, I admit the rain might have had something to do with the lack of burnt leaves." She squints her eyes at him, pinching her fingers together. "Just a bit. Still, it's quite amazing how much of an impact abject boredom can have on one's ability to concentrate."

Cullen sweeps a thumb across the back of Phaedra's hand. He's rewarded by her leaning further into him. "On that, we agree. Speaking of training, I noticed that you had a lengthy conversation with Commander Helaine when you arrived back yesterday. Have you settled on a specialization? 'Knight-Enchanter Lavellan.' It would be an impressive title, not to mention a useful skillset, for the leader of the Inquisition to have."

"Hmm, maybe. I'm still considering my options." Phaedra shrugs, "Could be fun though. Swinging around a big ol' fade sword?" She mimics the move with their linked hands, her hip bumping his with the motion. It makes Cullen smile, even if nothing in the action remotely resembles how one would swing a sword.

But that thought gives him a moment's pause, and his smile soon contorts to a frown. A vision of her being struck down in a close quarters fight, run-through by a blade that she'd no hope to deflect. "Have you ever even handled a sword before?"

There's a twinkle in her eyes when she twirls to face him, stopping his forward movement by pressing her free hand to his chest, the fingers of the one still linked with his tightening. "Why, Commander, I'd think you of all people would know the answer to _that_ question."

Warmth floods him, his freehand alighting on her side to steady himself as she moves into his space. Though he does his best to not be deterred, can he really be blamed if he squeezes the soft curve of her hip? If the timber of his voice drops to a rumble? "Not the kind of _sword_ I was talking about, Inquisitor."

That mischievous look of hers takes on a heated undertone, and he has to fight to stop himself from pulling her flush against him. Not here. Not when he knows the next guard patrol will be passing this area in short order. He's given up trying to stop the gossip altogether, but he'd rather not add too much fuel to the fire. But, _Maker_, the way she looks at him...

Any hope he'd had to keep distance between them is shattered when she presses herself close, her voice pitched low. "Maybe a change of topic is in order then?"

He sucks in a breath of air, his pulse quickening. He thinks she must feel the way that his heart pounds, with her hand still pressed to his chest between them. And judging by the smirk that pulls up one corner of her mouth, he's right. They've been together for long enough now though that while the stuttering fool in him still makes an appearance more than he'd like, he's comfortable enough with her to have developed some weapons of his own. Along with the confidence to use them. He leans in close, tilting his head towards her ear; ghosting a warm puff of air across the shell where he knows her to be particularly sensitive. "Or perhaps, a change in venue?"

Unable to resist, he presses his lips to the skin of her neck, just south of her ear. His ego swells when her breath hitches on his name, and a hissed, "_Yes._"

Cullen steps back, once, twice; letting her hand fall away from him. Delighting in the rush of color suffusing her cheeks. A shade of pink so lovely it puts the earlier sunset to shame. With a chuckle, he tugs on their linked digits. "Come on, then."

He leads her to the rooftop space where Varric had stashed Hawke when she first arrived at Skyhold - Cullen still has no idea how the dwarf managed to smuggle her in undetected, and with what happened at Adamant, he knows he'll never dare ask - the space open enough for what he has planned.

The look of disappointment on Phaedra's face when they stop on the rooftop, some distance from either of their rooms, is one that Cullen doubts will ever fade from memory. "This is not exactly where I had in mind, Cullen."

A light laugh escapes him. "No? My apologies for the misunderstanding, Inquisitor. But if you are considering pursuing Knight-Enchanter training, I would like to make certain you're familiar with…" And here he finds that he can't stop himself from teasing her the way she always does him, moving to stand behind her under the guise of adjusting her stance into something appropriate, while speaking low into her ear. "...The _weight _and _heft _of a real sword, before you go attempting to conjure one from thin air, and _swinging _it about."

She shivers in response, pressing her back to his chest. The considerable amount of effort that it takes him to not respond to that in the way that she hopes makes him question his decision to pursue this _now. _"If you wanted to get my hands on your _sword_, Cullen you only had to ask." She twists her head to look over her shoulder at him, batting long lashes in his direction. The hint of color still marking her face almost his undoing.

He knows if he speaks now, he'll just trip over his words, so he bites his tongue instead, pressing one leg between hers, reveling in the way she pushes back against him for a moment before he uses his foot to guide hers forward. The action, and her response, bolstering his confidence. "Step your left foot forward. Tilt your body with it. Without a shield in your hand, your aim should be to make yourself as small a target as possible." Even as he says it, he marvels at just how _small_ she is in comparison to him, with both his hands spanning her waist where they hold onto her hips. So small, and yet, he knows she wields a phenomenal amount of power.

She shifts her body, doing as instructed and falling into something approaching the proper stance. "Okay, Commander. You have me where you want me, now what are you going to do with me?"

He adjusts her hips, and her shoulders just a bit more inward, and steps back, reaching for the blade strapped, always, at his hip. Flashing her a wry grin. "I'm going to have you handle my sword, of course."

"Oh, how the guards will_ talk._" Her smile widens, her tongue poking out at the edge as she winks at him.

"They already do. I somehow doubt this would rank high in terms of gossip." Despite her good humor, he can see how her hands waver, how her eyes widen, when he passes the sword to her; looking at it at first as if it might bite her, before her demeanor hardens with steely-eyed determination.

Cullen takes the time to instruct her on the proper way to hold it; adjusting and readjusting her hands on the hilt, before moving behind her so that he can guide her through the basic positions. Shifting her through each with a patient hand, focusing on guards. Until she can move from short to close, inside, long, low, middle, and high with a fluid sort of grace.

It's near on an hour later when she breaks her stance, a light sheen of sweat visible on her brow from the effort of holding the sword aloft, and calls enough. Her hair is limp, and she has a half-grimace on her face, but he thinks she's radiant in the glow of the single brazier gracing the rooftop. He wants nothing more than to press his lips to her temple, to her jaw, to the hollow of her throat. To lead her back to his quarters, and...

He coughs into his fist, to distract from the rising flush in his cheeks. Yes. Yes they've trained enough for one night.

Phaedra tilts the tip of the sword towards the ground and holds it out to him, but when he places his hand on the hilt to take it from her, she doesn't let go. Instead using the momentum he creates drawing it towards himself to step into his space. So close that the tips of her boots tap his own. "How did I do, Commander?" Her voice is a teasing lilt, and her lips...her lips are close enough to be distracting, and yet, still distressingly far away

"You uh- you struggle to keep your guard up on your right. You drop the sword just enough that a powerful blow would make it through your defenses rather than be deflected. With, um…" Her free hand skates up his arm, before tangling with the fur of his pauldrons at his nape as she pulls herself an inch off the ground, closing the distance between them until it all but ceases to exist. All the blood in his body rushes in opposing directions in response. "Um...with practice - and a lighter blade - you should be able to overcome…"

"So what you're saying, is that I need more, _practice_, handling your _sword_?"

"Uhh...yes?"

She purses her lips, before breaking into a smile and dropping back to ground. "Good to know. I'll have Josephine add it to my schedule. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll drop down to the tavern and grab a bite to eat. I'm starving." With a wink and a half-wave she skips back a step from him, almost out of his reach - but not quite.

And oh, but he's not so foolish as to let her slip away. With a growl, he stretches out with his free hand, and wraps his arm all the way around her waist, and hauls her towards him.

He kisses her. Thoroughly. Enjoying the breathy sound of delight she exhales into his mouth as their lips make contact. The way that both her hands move from his chest, up his shoulders, until she is holding his face framed in both her small palms; how they wrap around the back of his neck as he tightens his grip, bringing her impossibly close. The sweet and salty taste of her flooding his senses; though he is careful to keep the hand still clasping his unsheathed blade pointing down and away.

He slows the kiss, giving into his urge from earlier, biting - gently - at her lower lip, before pulling away. The whimper that she gives when he releases her, along with the way her mouth chases after his, goes straight to his head. Along with other - notable - locales. The points of color high on her cheeks are just as gratifying.

This time, it is Cullen that steps back, happy to watch her catch her breath as he slides his sword into place at his side. "Dinner?"

"Huh?"

She blinks glazed eyes up at him when presses a hand to her lower back, guiding her towards the stairs. "Food, Inquisitor. You mentioned that you were starving, and I have a vested interest in keeping your strength up."

"Hmm, and why is that?"

"Well, for a variety of reasons. Though one in particular is on my mind tonight."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

He waits until she's reached the last step, her left foot touching down on solid ground before he leans in to whisper in her ear again. "Sword practice."

He laughs when she trips, clearly startled, but he catches her, and she swats him in retaliation. Which leads to them both laughing like teenagers, opting to gather up food from the pantry and stealing away to her quarters for the remainder of the night.

For a different kind of sword practice.

Because practice, makes perfect.

~End


End file.
